mns  2007-08-08 12:55   

I am, what I consider to be, mildly claustrophobic. I like doors and windows open, I sleep with my feet outside the quilt, and I’m not keen on small enclosed spaces. Last winter I was forced to confront this phobia when I went to record Searching for Home. The recording booth was so small that, once inside it, there was no possibility for movement. It was airless and tiny.
At the time, my immediate thought was, what on earth am I going to do? I was about to say to the sound technician would it be possible to leave the door open, when he suddenly said, ‘Of course this is sound proof,’ and I realised there was nothing I could do except get on with it. To have pulled out would have messed up a whole lot of people, their time, their money, and of course my own integrity. And so I got on with it and did it, and will be doing the same again in two weeks time when I record The Lost Garden.

JC is aware of my slight claustrophobic tendencies, but was not aware that I am also afraid of suspension bridges. This is not necessarily the kind of information that you share with your partner, partly because I don’t like to appear as a bundle of strange neuroses, but also because there was no cause to mention it.
Until last week.
JC drove us through England to the ferry. I drove us from the ferry through France to play bridge in Deauville.
Coming out of Le Havre I did see this big suspension bridge, and I thought to myself ‘Thank goodness we’re not going on that.’ And then, horror of horrors, one moment we were on a normal road and the next, I was on the bridge.
There was no way back.
There was no question of stopping. I had no choice but to proceed. If you have ever seen a picture of the Pont du Normandie and if you have a bridge phobia you will understand that this was completely terrifying. I was about to say to J that I had a problem, when my mobile rang and he spent the next few minutes talking to one of our teammates on it, while I progressed up and up and up this bridge. I had to drive with my right hand covering the view on the right hand side, and when we eventually got to the other side I discovered I was crying. And shaking. And swearing that we would have to circumnavigate France to get back to Le Havre because I was never driving across that ‘thing’ again.
JC said there would be no circumnavigation of France and that he would drive back.

I spent the next four days (when I wasn’t either playing bridge or eating) thinking about the bridge and fear and facing one’s demons. I have no idea where this particular fear emanated, all I know is that it is very real. But I decided that I had to deal with it – a bit like the recording booth.
That which does not kill us makes us stronger.
And so I did the drive back over the bridge, right hand blocking the view, in the fast lane so that I wouldn’t be near the edge, (and so that I would be off the bridge quicker) and we arrived at the other side and I wasn’t crying, and not really shaking, and feeling almost triumphant.

Deauville is wonderful, and so is its neighbouring town, Trouville. They lie each side of the river. We played in the Casino in Deauville, which is like a palace, with plush red curtains, brocaded chairs, thick carpets and fantastic chandeliers. I believe it was the setting for the original Casino Royale. For the most part we ate in Trouville, wandering down little narrow streets, or along the port, where restaurants were in abundance, as were the moules. Seafood paradise. We did not shine, rolling in 29th out of 70+, but it was great fun and the weather was wonderful, warm sunny days, the smell of the sea, and making new friends as I had not met our teammates before.
They were camping in tents. Last time I stayed in a tent was in Greenham Common in the Eighties, and I swore then that I would not stay in a tent ever again. So JC and I were ensconced in a local hotel on the marina.
We put the car in the hotel’s underground carpark, though several times I thought maybe I should put it across the road on the marina which seemed perfectly safe and was a lot cheaper.
However I didn’t, and am very glad I didn’t.
On the last night, tossing and turning and worrying about the bridge (the Pont du Normandie, I mean), I heard quite a racket outside, and getting up I looked out of our 3rd floor window, to see a group of youths systematically breaking off the wing mirrors on all the cars parked across the road, before bouncing up and down on a small car until it broke. It seemed to collapse under them, and then shouting and screaming at their pathetic and destructive success, they ran off down the road.
I’m not sure what the moral of that story is, except that the underground carpark was worth every last cent. And what we saved on the potential repair of our car we were able to spend in a French supermarket, a boot full of du vin et des fromages accompanied us home.